


Satellites

by DarcyFarrow



Category: Noel Fielding's Luxury Comedy, The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Dementia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 19:53:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19775263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarcyFarrow/pseuds/DarcyFarrow
Summary: Not even dementia can pull them apart.





	Satellites

“So you keep talking in many languages  
Telling us the way you feel  
Don’t stop, I’ll know the road you’re on”  
\--”Satellites,” Rickie Lee Jones

“I used to be. . . somebody,” he stumbles over a hole in his memory, his famous bright eyes clouded over. “Who?”

Julian has learned over the years not to take alarm at such questions, or Noel's struggle to free himself of the fog. The will to fight, and with it, the frustration, will pass, too soon, and Noel will retreat into the comfort of his personal fog. “You were the Sunshine Kid.”

“And a fish,” Noel's frown deepens. “Some kind of fish.”

“A manta ray,” Julian supplies, “and a merman. You were Old Gregg.”

Those blue eyes light up and Noel's voice twists into something nasal and, at the same time, guttural. “Do you love me?” 

“‘Course I do. Always.” Julian means it, but tomorrow Noel won’t remember anything that is said today.

“Make an assessment.” But even before he finishes the demand, Noel's ducking his head to pluck at a loose thread on the hem of his gray linen shirt. Julian recognizes the sign: the fog is closing in again. Noel yanks on a fistful of the shirt (which fit him well enough last month but now hangs loose. Julian will have to speak to the nutritionist, remind her that for a couple of years in his forties, Noel had problems with food. Does his current disease work that way? When his mind retreats to the past, does he think he's anorexic again?). 

“Little Man.” But Noel is still absorbed with the loose thread, his lip curling in disgust. Does he remember he used to be a bellwether for fashion? The gray shirt and black trousers that all the residents here are issued to wear surely must grate on his nerves, even if he doesn't remember why. The tiny devil that rides on Julian's shoulder whispers an idea, then titters (its giggle is identical to Noel's) and Julian chuckles deep in his throat. Yes, somewhere at home, crammed at the back of one of Noel's closets, probably, is that sack dress Noel liked to shock the public with, the one emblazoned with a garish self-portrait of the clown-artist’s cosmetics-painted face. The dress that always made Julian's stomach slosh, though he understood what it was about. He has always understood what Noel is about. He will bring the dress in tomorrow, help Noel shake off the drab standard issue and slide the dress on. Noel should look like himself for a change, until the caretakers tut and redress him, as surely they will, as soon as Julian has left.

“Noel,” Julian tries again. “Do you remember me?”

_(“Why?” Julian had thrust his hands through his hair, what was left of it, frustrated to the point of anger, a primal existential rage that he'd kept bottled up as Noel slipped away from the world, away from those who still needed him, away from himself. The geriatrician misunderstood the question. “We just don't have a cure. It's a highly complex—” “No,” Julian had interrupted. “He's the agile-minded one, ideas pouring out his ears nonstop. Not me. I had to sweat for every joke. A mind like his, how—Besides, I'm older than he is. Why him, not me?” “Oh,” the doctor caught on now. “Well, we think genetics plays a role.” Julian had tuned the rest of the answer out. It wasn't a biological question he was asking but a philosophical one, or maybe spiritual._

_He'd closed out his career then, what dregs there were left of it: a few songs he'd been writing, a "Where Are They Now" TV segment, an awards show he was supposed to present at. Instructed his agent he had bigger fish to fry. He drove Noel home, both of them silently watching the lines on the road. He felt Noel fading away even then. At home he'd fed his Sunshine Kid a workingman's lunch, then sat down with him on the sofa and put on a Buster Keaton, the one with the daydream sequence. Buster could always pull that all-consuming grin out of Noel. And that uninhibited, head-thrown-back laugh. . . . Julian could remember the first time he'd ever heard that laugh. It had struck a resounding chord in his chest and he'd spent the rest of his life since then chasing that laugh. What a gift Noel's laugh was, given so freely and so easily, whether Julian had earned it or not. As the disease consumed Noel, would it swallow his laugh too?_

_Julian’s career became Noel then, Woolabum to the Little Man’s Fantasy Man, always ready with another weapon—meds, food, exercise, jokes—whenever Noel felt fit enough to fight to reclaim a memory. They fought side by side, though both knew it was a losing battle. Sometimes that kilowatt grin would light up and the Little Man would quip, "No one's ever beat this monster, yeah? Until me." Three years they'd fought until exhaustion overtook them both and Julian had had to call in a home health care worker. Then another three years had brought them here. “I don't mind,” Noel had insisted. But he shifted his eyes from side to side and Julian wondered if he realized where they were and why. Did he know what it was that he wasn't minding? “Hey, we'll have a new audience here. None of these people have heard our material before. Or if they have, they don't remember,” Julian had assured him.)_

“Hey, Fantasy Man,” Julian tries for the third time. Noel finally gives up on the loose thread and raises his head. “Shrimp Eyes,” he snipes.

Encouraged, Julian asks the question that he's never ventured to ask before. “Do you love me?”

Noel's eyes shimmer. “You're the moon.”

“That's right. And so are you. We're moons together.” Julian clasps his partner’s hand, but Noel stares at the interlocking fingers, perplexed. 

“Who are you?”

Julian’s voice rattles in his chest. “I'm your satellite.”


End file.
